Where Did They Go?

Where did they go, the maple grove,
the rolling hills, the rows of corn,
the meadowlark’s repeated tune?
This is the land where I was born
now in time’s quicksand sunk too soon.

I see it now with memory’s sight,
the dappled days of sun and rain,
the field’s gate through a leafy lane,
where once I scoured the moldboard bright
but will not plow again.